Conference calls. The name alone is enough to warn you. A conference you attend in a telephone. The only way it could be worse would be if it was inside a telephone booth. The calls are dull, excruciating and terrifying.

Remind me again - why do I want to speak to all these people at once? Sat on my stairs at home with an ill child upstairs (but pretending to be in the office), I feel the sweat prickling.

Inevitably, after calling the number as directed, I'm kept waiting. The clock is ticking way past the arranged time and nothing is happening. The angry knot in my stomach is growing by the second. There go several minutes of my life I'll never get back.

Humming Blondie's Hanging on the Telephone and muttering darkly about what I'd like to do with the lead, I still jump out of my skin when someone else says "hello".

Here we go. But now there's a problem so common you'd think it would be fixed now: a time delay on every phrase.

The delay can turn the most serious conversation into something like the Two Ronnies' Mastermind sketch: specialist subject - "answering the question before last". (Question: What is Bernard Manning famous for? Answer: That is the question. Question: Who is the Archbishop of Canterbury? Answer: He's a fat man who tells blue jokes.) We do the same, but with marketing speak somehow it's less funny.

Someone is repeating my name and asking if I agree. Unfortunately I can't tell who it is. "Yes," I say, "now what was the question?"

Suddenly, a low slurping noise assaults my ear. Mike from the fundraising department is drinking coffee. "Turn the mute on Mike, will you," we all screech in unison. So we get baffling piped music instead. There's a wail from upstairs. Now then, have I pressed the mute button? What does the hash key do again? Should I press it or risk them hearing a poorly daughter calling for some water?

"All right, sweetheart, I'll be there in a minute," I say soothingly. "No, not you Mike," I say, less soothingly. "I'm not coming to see you."

We're on to point six of the agenda. (Did someone say agenda? No one told me about that.) An intermittent beeping sound invades our conversation. Someone is pressing their buttons. "Stop it," says a voice I don't recognise.

A loud rasping noise follows, then silence. Uh-oh. Someone is sitting on a leather chair. I'm grateful for small mercies - it's not me. Nobody wants to be remembered as the one who insisted they didn't have wind during the last conference call.

At last it's over. Phew, now what exactly have I learned? My notes are something about Debbie Harry, Ronnie Corbett and "don't forget to say pardon".

The solution is to meet in person, I'm sure of it. What's a frighteningly steep train ticket between friends? Forget Skype or Instant Messenger, I'm far too old and grumpy for any of that.

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